Time to Play
by Lady Duck
Summary: The game was never about Sherlock. It was never about boredom. For Moriarty, the stakes of his game are higher than what John Watson could have ever anticipated. Rated T for mild swearing.


**This is my take of what might have happened after John was kidnapped before the epic pool scene in Episode 3. Granted, it's a little different than most, but I liked the idea of it :) **

**Read and review please! Comments are always much appreciated!**

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"Isn't this a nice little surprise."

John's eyes flickered open at the sound of that strangely familiar voice, a childish quality evident in the tone. He'd heard that voice before, _somewhere_…

_Sherlock. Please. What's happened?_

"You might be asking yourself, 'But I've only been the upstanding soldier my entire life. Never done anyone any wrong. Why have I been so cleverly kidnapped and taken to the public swimming pool, all while being wrapped in an armor of Semtex?'"

God, where was it…it had only been a few days ago.

His eyes felt like sandbags. He couldn't open them fully to discern the possessor of such a hauntingly thrilling voice.

Pain shot through his neck, centered near the vein that he felt sure was near throbbing. His head pounded, like an invisible stranger was beating it with a baseball bat. A heavy breath revealed the pungent stench of chlorine and rather expensive-smelling cologne. So he was at the public pool.

_If you had been here you would have slapped me and called me an idiot for not figuring it out earlier. But I'm tired, Sherlock. I don't know why you're not here._

"Sherlock is too preoccupied at the moment to come to the rescue. Until he's free again, you have me for your entertainment."

The weight of his eyelids lessened a little with each passing minute. Soon he was able to open them halfway. With his chin tilted downward, he caught a glimpse of the Semtex his captor was talking about. "Enough to take down a house" Lestrade had said earlier that week. He didn't know anything about explosives, but even he wasn't stupid enough to not assume that any boom equated to instant death. Hopefully if he did die, he could take this madman down with him.

_Damn it, Sherlock. Find me. Isn't that what you're good at?_

"Oh, how long I've waited for this moment. I don't think you understand, Dr. John H. Watson."

The voice crept closer, softer and more menacing.

"This whole game, this entire opera I've orchestrated, was motivated by something even you, I think, can comprehend."

Did everyone associated with Sherlock, good and evil, think he was stupid?

_I'm not going to say that I'm scared, because that would be the biggest understatement of the century._

The voice had paused. John could hear labored breathing directly to his right. Footsteps. He was coming even closer now.

"Your charming Scotland Yard buggers haven't deterred me from my ultimate goal, John. Their involvement can't even be called a setback. Why give the most brainless force of police officers that honor of being an obstacle?"

Oh God. He could sense him. One more step and _whoever he is _would be touching him. He knew it was coming. A panting breath tickled his neck and ear, if only slightly.

_If the bastard touches me, I'm going to kill him. _

John could open his eyes almost fully now. He slowly turned his head _this is the only time I will actually wish that Sherlock was some sort of junkie, God the pain _and winced as his eyes widened.

It was that bloke from St. Bart's, in IT. Whatshisname...Jack? Joey?

_Ugh, Jim. Right. Gay._

If he was truly gay, then the obvious indicators that Sherlock had observed were gone. No neon green underwear, no petrie dish to leave his telephone number on..._oh my God._

_It was all an act. Jim was never gay for Sherlock._

"Finally figured it out, have you? Oh, congratulations, John!" Jim's taunting smirk never wavered. "For the first time in your life you can actually say that you've been a bit brilliant!"

John had felt like his throat had closed up. He wanted to say something cutting and punishing to Jim, something that would show he was a fighter. Like he'd always been, whenever they were out on cases to keep Sherlock from getting too bored in the flat but came across ones that ended up being dangerous to a rather psychotic degree.

John loved those cases. He loved that Sherlock didn't hesitate to use him as his sounding board, as wonderfully attentive the skull had been. He loved how Sherlock's mouth would twitch with the perfect mixture of annoyance and amusement whenever Lestrade _or even me, I'm a part of the idiotic masses too _said something dense _to Sherlock, that's what it always was_ that would prompt the wave of deductive reasoning that would shut him up.

_Quit reminiscing. Until Sherlock gets here, God forbid he doesn't, I need to find a way to escape._

Jim's stony stance and horrifically twinkling eyes quickly refuted that idea.

"You're not going anywhere, John Watson. I haven't gotten to play with you yet."

John breathed in through his mouth and felt relieved when the tension in his throat decreased a little. Enough to speak, at least.

"What...the hell is...going on?" he croaked.

Jim grinned mischievously before purring, "You're my game, Dr. Watson."

_Sherlock..._

_Moriarty._

"What do you...mean?"

Jim seemed to contemplate stepping closer to his hostage before deciding against it, choosing to circle him, hawk-like gaze piercing him. Hands clasped behind his back, he looked almost like Mycroft Holmes with his authoritative attitude. Jim said nothing, just stared with that offsetting smile that reminded him of what a predator would use to lure a child toward his ice cream stall. He wouldn't fall for that. He would not be the bait to lure Sherlock to come and play.

John was impatient for an answer to his question.

_Something tells me that any attempt at physical violence wouldn't be too good of an idea._

_Could you possibly hurry it up, Sherlock? _

"What did you mean when you said I was your game?" John pushed, sounding stronger.

"Exactly what I said. Oh dear, all this time running around and being Sherlock's boy toy has softened your already incompetent brain. Ever heard of the word 'literal,' John?"

_How is that possible? _

"But every puzzle you sent to Sherlock was for him. How am I the game then?"

This was getting ridiculous. Did everyone have to be so goddamn cryptic? John wanted to chuckle when he thought of how Sherlock would answer that question _obviously everyone is on a mission to expose you as the biggest idiot in the country_ but didn't. He wouldn't give this maniac any satisfaction, any reaction. If Jim from IT wanted to play, then he would have to come and get him.

"Ah, so you've decided to play stubborn?" Jim inched closer, cavalier façade still intact. "I never loved that look on you. Looks just too...stupid. Even more so than usual."

John rolled his eyes. As if Sherlock didn't tell him enough.

"I rather prefer that look of fiery defiance you sport when Sherlock tells you to do something that annoys you. Like calling you from across town just to send that tiny little text to the cabbie?" Jim was less than a foot away. He leaned over before breathing, "I dreamt of that look for days, Johnny."

_Oh dear God. It's me._

Jim extended a pale hand towards John's face, not even flinching when John moved it out of his range.

_He's mental if he thinks he can touch AHHH..._

John winced in pain as Jim's hand fisted his hair, forcing him to look up at him. He couldn't look away from those black eyes completely fixated on him in a...longing way? The lust in his eyes made him want to retch. Jim felt John convulse under his fingers on the collar of John's shirt, smiling softly to himself.

"Do you have any idea how much you've teased me with those silly jumpers you wear? Why hide yourself? It's only me looking, after all..." His voice dipped lower, sounding husky and threatening.

_Sherlock. I'm begging now. Please._

Jim released John's shirt and lightly trailed the well-manicured nails up the column of John's neck, stopping when reaching the sensitive spot under his ear. John's breaths came in heavy pants as he fully realized what was happening _this can't be happening, this can't be happening_.

Jim leaned in slowly, brushing smooth lips against John's ear. "Do you know how...enticing you are to me, John?" Feeling his captive shiver, he stepped back a little to add, "Of course, it wouldn't surprise me if you didn't."

"Unfortunately, I don't think insults are the best way to win someone's heart," John spat.

The criminal's face lit up with joy _oh God why is he looking at me like that_ and his lips broke into a full smile. "The fire returns! Oh, Johnny boy, I think you may have just made my day!"

"Completely unintentional, I assure you."

"Come, come, don't be like that. This could all work out quite nicely for you if you behave yourself."

"Like hell I will."

The ecstasy was wiped off Jim's face and replaced with a snarl as he wrenched his hand into John's hair again. "I wouldn't say such things if I were you. Daddy won't be very pleased."

_Sherlock, why the hell did you think it would be fun to mess with this guy?_

Jim grinned evilly before whispering, "I don't think Sherlock would be too pleased either."

The grin grew wider when John's eyes flooded with horror. John began to struggle frantically, trying to wrestle away from the other man's grasp. Each movement tightened the hand in his hair, sparking small jolts of pain along his scalp. That didn't stop him from endeavoring to escape Jim _if only I could get him to let go of my hair._

"I believe you noticed before how pointless it would be to try and escape, John. And like I said, Sherlock won't be too pleased with me if he finds I've managed to hurt his beloved pet."

John growled. "Don't flatter yourself. You obviously don't know Sherlock at all."

"Oh?" Jim questioned, curiosity glinting in his eyes. "We seem to have about an hour before Sherlock makes his grand entrance. Pray tell how I couldn't know the infamous Sherlock Holmes."

"I have integrated myself into your lives, after all," he added with a hint of malevolent delight.

_An hour, an hour, only just an hour..._

"Then you would have noticed that Sherlock Holmes is a sociopath. He'd be incapable of caring," John said weakly, managing to contain most of his disappointment at the acknowledgment of that glaring truth. John knew that Sherlock would be devastated for possibly a few days _if I'm that lucky _but then rekindle his relationship with his skull. Once John was out of the way, Sherlock would deal with that inconvenience the only way he knew how: by forgetting about it. Deleting it. Sherlock would delete John Watson from his mind because honestly, why would he want to carry such baggage with him while attempting to stay productive? John hated himself for accepting such an inhuman way of acquiescence. He hated that Sherlock would have the ability to just...forget. Let any thought of John Watson slip away for the sake of productivity.

_I picked such a shitty flatmate. _

Jim watched John's emotional battle silently, basking in the glow of his pain and suffering. He had him right where he wanted him. At this stage of vulnerability, John wouldn't resist him. He couldn't. Not if he wanted to remain alive to see Sherlock and keep the explosives on his chest intact. Which he did, Jim could see. John cared about Sherlock deeply, much more than the proclaimed sociopath did for the army doctor. It was a shame, a tragic love story. Because if he couldn't have John, and God did he want him, then no one could. John would cost the price of two lives instead of just his own, and undoubtedly those of more people (Jim's rage would be predictably uncontrollable, and the general population would suffer). Sherlock would never have him. As if he'd want him, anyway.

Nobody appreciated John as much as Jim did. No one.

And he intended for John to see that. Experience it. Drown in it. Jim fully expected Dr. John Watson to want him. He'd have to; he'd have no other choice.

"You know who is capable of caring, my dear? I could love you so much better than Sherlock Holmes. He'd never want you anyway. No one but me wants you. That leaves you for me," Jim stated.

It was time.

_Why won't he stop looking at me like that? __Oh. No. No, no, NO!_

Jim's lips crashed into John's, unrelenting and molesting. Angry tears formed under John's closed eyelids as his mouth was forced open for Jim's tongue to mash against his own. The force of it, and the extremely aggressive heat emanating from Jim, drugged John into unresponsiveness. Jim noticed, but decided to give John another chance to reciprocate his feelings. He wrapped a strong hand around the back of the other man's neck and crushed his mouth with the passion he felt for the stocky and muscular doctor.

_Make him stop._

John felt like he was going to pass out. Not that he would've minded. Unconsciousness was better than having to sit and allow this sick, twisted monster to take advantage of him.

Jim became increasingly annoyed with the lack of fire from his captive and pulled away, only to reposition his lips at John's ear. "If you want to make it out of this room alive, John, then you'll have to do better than that. Better to see Sherlock one more time than never getting to see him again."

Jim only heard heavy breathing in response to his ultimatum, immediately taking it to be an acknowledgment of his demands and an acceptance of them. Not bothering to waste anymore time (he only had about fifty more minutes with John to himself), he brought his lips to John's again, not as painfully insistent this time but with the same amount of intensity.

_God help me for this. Sherlock, I'm doing this for you._

Shivering slightly, John tentatively returned the pressure against Jim's lips. He let Jim trace his tongue along the seam of his mouth, and allowed Jim's tongue to grace his own. John didn't fight and strained to battle Jim with some level of emotional passion, just to be kept alive. It seemed to work, for Jim kissed John for minutes without stopping. John tried to forget that he was being held hostage in the arms of a murderous psychopath and imagined Sherlock instead. Imagined molding his lips against Sherlock's instead of Jim Moriarty.

_If I ever have to kiss another man in my lifetime, it had better be Sherlock. _

_Please, come faster. I need you._

Jim smirked into John's mouth, pushing for more and more and finally relieving the tension that had been pent up inside of him since he'd first laid eyes on John Watson. His dreams of this man, vivid ones and all, were no comparison to the feeling of finally claiming John as his own. Sherlock would never have the courage to push John against a wall and kiss him desperately, but Jim did. Jim would be able to live all of his fantasies. And for the first time in his life, since before he committed his first act of crime, he felt a tinge of happiness.

After almost twenty minutes of just exploring John Watson's mouth, there was a muffled knock at the door. Jim groaned in annoyance at the interruption and pushed himself off of the doctor's lap. Not before softly biting his lower lip.

The door was thrown open, and John could discern a man dressed in all black with a sniper's rifle slung over his shoulder. The two men spoke in hushed undertones, too softly for John to hear anything. But if the look on Moriarty's face was anything, John knew that it would not be good.

A nod from the criminal mastermind dismissed the sniper. Jim stood by the doorway, looking out at the pool that was not more than twenty yards away. Everything was silent, except for the footsteps that grew softer and softer by the second until they disappeared. John felt his insides freeze, his throat closing once again and perspiration coating his brow. He knew what was going to happen next.

Sherlock was almost here. He'd arrived early.

_If I get out of this alive, there's no way I'm ever leaving Sherlock's side again. All women be damned._

Jim Moriarty didn't move for a few minutes, contemplating the information that one of his best operatives had just given him. The consulting detective had defied his expectations and came to the pool almost half an hour earlier than planned. That, in itself, screamed something to Jim. Arriving at eleven-thirty when he'd posted on his website that midnight would be the designated time? That showed something. Jim's fists curled tightly in quiet rage. Sherlock did want John Watson. He wanted him back.

Well, he wasn't going to allow that to happen now, would he?

Slowly, Jim turned to face the man he'd lusted for after seeing him for the first time enter that dilapidated building holding his fourth serial suicide victim. Jim knew that for one short moment, it would all be out of his hands. His plan rested on John's decision now: to cooperate, or not to cooperate? If he did, then there was still hope. But there was time to hope later.

"Well, John, it seems that your knight in shining armor has ridden in on his valiant steed a bit ahead of schedule."

John didn't let the relief show on his face. He answered evenly, "I'd figured as much."

Suddenly, Jim decided that John didn't have the capacity to choose whether he would participate in his little charade or not. He was just so changeable. Besides, there was now a much better chance for his John to choose correctly.

He stalked towards the man sitting against the wall, wrapped in explosives, and murmured, "Show time."


End file.
